


Hourglass

by Arinia



Series: In Death's Embrace, We are Reborn [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scenes, Mutual Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sensuality, Temporary Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: USA, 1969The men on the moon have fallen silent. And Crowley is beginning to stir.If Aziraphale doesn't act fast, he will lose him forever.A compilation of missing scenes fromTake Flight While Angels Sing
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: In Death's Embrace, We are Reborn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1463371
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very excited to finally post this project that has been banging around my head for months now. With so much time jumped over in _Take Flight While Angels Sing_ , a lot of scenes end up on the cutting room floor, and a lot of my personal favourites, at that. 
> 
> These won't be uploaded in any particular order, and they'll vary from Crowley and Aziraphale's point of view (who I've been itching to write again for this universe). The summary will be changed to reflect the most current update, and the same general content warnings as TFWAS apply here: violent imagery, temporary character death, depictions of war, mentions of suicidal thoughts and torture. Each scene will have its own content warnings in addition. This is an M for now, but might get kicked up to E later on, but any smut chapters will be clearly marked should you wish to skip it.

_USA, 1969_

The men on the moon have fallen silent.

And Crowley has fallen silent with them.

He does not know how long he has held him for. The screams, guttural, a swell of agony unlike anything Aziraphale has ever heard, at last were no more. He had pressed his face into the back of his neck, fiery strands grounding him, a reminder, as Crowley broke and shattered in his arms.

He had silently wept, wings held so achingly still, scared to move, to breathe, lest Crowley bolt and take that thermos with him, Aziraphale’s greatest regret in his long, long existence. God Herself could have come down and still Aziraphale would not have budged, would have held on tighter, because nothing, there was nothing more important in that moment than Crowley.

The screams die away, a faint echo, a horrid whisper, as the television gives over to static, a world riveted and marveling at its own ingenuity. He only has eyes for the one who is clutched in his arms, who is beginning to stir. Bottles beside them silently tilting upright, liquid appearing in them once more.

Seconds. He has mere seconds. He can still feel the holiness radiating from the thermos, flush against Crowley’s too thin chest.

Hesitate now, his usual cowardice, and he will lose Crowley forever. Perhaps it would be fitting after all he has done these 7 long years. Phones dialed and hung up again. Ears straining for the roar of an engine. A telegram, yellow around the edges like all old things should be, read over and over.

But, it wasn’t like _then_. He had walked away to protect Crowley, because he _loves_ Crowley, a great, powerful thing that has consumed him completely. And he has given him what he wanted, after all. That wretched suicide pill, a dagger to the heart.

A spark snuffed out of existence.

_No._

He is standing before he knows it, still cradling Crowley in his embrace. Wings flapping gratefully, spanning the room, and for a moment the darkness gives way to the light.

“…Aziraphale.” Voice raw and shredded, but sober, already sober. Muscles tense, close to clambering away, and he will take that thermos with him, and he will bring all of Aziraphale’s worst fears to pass.

“Please.” He clutches him tighter. Tries to ignore how _light_ Crowley is, all bones and edges. “Come home with me.”

Crowley is still tense. But, he says no more. Aziraphale will take it for now, his mind buzzing and weeping at what 7 years have wrought. He had not planned to hold Crowley. To take him home with him (home, home, for it is _their_ home, it always has been). He had not planned to come at all.

Gabriel had always said he was pitiful. A slave to his heart’s whims.

Well. Perhaps he was.

The room rights itself, melting away with a soft sound of protest from Crowley, but nothing more. It is morning in London, that soft grey dawn peeking through the windows. The promise of heat in the mid-summer air. Crowley is heat, is fire, burning brighter than any star in the sky.

And yet, he feels faint.

There is no time for hesitation. To shuffle, and dither, and attempt to stand firm on breaking… whatever _they_ were, off. Crowley is in his arms, drenched in alcohol and tears, and Aziraphale can’t bear the thought of not having him near.

Crowley is wide-eyed, laid down on the couch. He has not said a word, but as Aziraphale grabs the thermos, he snarls, a weak thing. “No. Need it. Not letting you take it.”

He could easily pry it away, especially with Crowley in this exhausted state. Drop it into the deepest ocean he can find, far away from Crowley’s itching fingers. But, everything is fragile. So many mistakes, he can’t afford to make one more. He pleads again, for he knows that Crowley will give in, he always does, no matter what. “Just… just let me place it on the table.”

_Darling_ burns on his tongue.

Wings still out, Crowley is staring at them, and Aziraphale briefly wonders if he kept his feather from all those years ago. All too aware of another time, where wings black as night cocooned him, where he had first heard Crowley’s heart hammering against his chest.

Teetering on the edge, he has not thought this through. Crowley is alive, and he is here; yellow eyes with tears still clinging to the lashes. Resolve collapsing under the weight of so much fear and loneliness. He _should_ send Crowley away. Every second he is here is more dangerous than the last.

Instead he is snapping his coat and vest off, suspenders holding up trousers that used to be comfortable and snug. A blanket in his hands, trying to ignore the way Crowley is gaping at him, trying to ignore the flutter of hope and horror in his stomach. One swift movement and they are under the quilt, tartan pattern with threads of vibrant red, an endless expanse of wings hiding them away.

Their eyes lock, waiting for the other to move, to speak. It is not lost on him how close Crowley is, how he can feel his breath caress his cheek. He’s not sure what he is doing, the world all mixed up and sick. He has spent the entirety of this decade sure that Crowley was dead, or soon to be. At Hell’s hand, at _his_. Now that he is here, safe and breathing and close enough Aziraphale can smell the stale scent of scotch…

He can’t let him go.

He knows Crowley is waiting for him to say something. He is doing the same. Words have never come easy for them, not even with all the boundaries they have crossed, all the thousands of years between them. Actions are safer, say so much more. Now they are frozen, caught in this tense moment of limbo, scared to shut their eyes and step off the cliff, lest they land somewhere they can’t escape.

They can only stare. And wait.

= = = =

The sun begins its descent. They still have not moved.

Aziraphale has memorized everything about Crowley once more. His lank hair, his rumpled clothes. Who is still more beautiful than anything Aziraphale has ever seen on Heaven or Earth. Everything in him begs to reach out. He has tried to be strong these past seven years.

Oh, he has tried.

Walking away protected Crowley. Protected himself. Nevermind that they lay here, wearing their scars and agony so openly. They are _alive_ , no Heaven or Hell bearing down on them. A part of him foolishly thought he could close Pandora’s Box, as if the slow settling into Crowley’s embrace had not altered him beyond recognition. He could take up the mantle of loyal Heavenly solider once more, hide away his feelings as he has done for centuries.

But, Heaven’s light is not as bright as he remembers. And nothing compares to Crowley.

A tear slips out, sliding down Crowley’s gaunt cheek. It is the first sign of life in hours. One tear, just one, racing towards his pointed chin.

Aziraphale catches it before he can stop himself. Crowley’s cheek is flush. Warm. As soft as he remembers.

Closer now. He aches all over. He has missed Crowley, a vital part of himself, ripped out and now returned to him at last. Thoughts of Heaven and Hell are growing fainter, Crowley’s lips are washed out and pale, and he remembers all too well what they felt like.

If he crosses this line, he cannot possibly walk away again.

Heart pounding in his throat, Crowley won’t bridge the gap, not when it was Aziraphale who decided to leave. Crowley, who always allows him to set the pace, who will lay on this sofa for eternity until Aziraphale makes his choice.

A part of him already knows what choice he will make. He has already made it the minute he took Crowley into his arms.

He closes the gap, wavering for a heartbeat, before their lips brush together. Hesitant. Barely there. Tears thick in his eyes, in his throat. Seven years since they’ve kissed. Seven long, miserable years. He so badly wants to push further, to pick up where they left off. But, he is afraid.

And Crowley is not kissing him back.

He’s staring at him as he pulls away, so raw and vulnerable, it makes Aziraphale’s heart wail with guilt. It has been hours, years, but perhaps that is too soon. Aziraphale takes so often from Crowley, who gives himself away so freely, and now he is taking selfishly once more.

But, then.

Crowley is coming nearer.

Their lips touch, tentative at first. Uncertainty rolls off Crowley in waves. As if they have never kissed at all. But, Crowley is returning his kiss, there is still _hope_. For them. For their future, bleak and dangerous, but _theirs_. There is no future without Crowley. How could he have ever thought there was?

He dares to press closer, feels a bony hand cup his cheek, and oh God, _God_ has he missed this, missed Crowley with every fiber of his being. A relieved sob escapes someone, maybe from both. He opens his mouth, feels Crowley’s hesitation before his tongue slides inside. Aziraphale needs more; needs to touch, to taste, to reacquaint with what he had lost. He is damning himself, but that suddenly matters very little, here in his bookshop, with Crowley warm and close, and safe from Hell’s grasp.

_What does this mean?_

He had once asked Crowley. Shy and full of terrifying exhilaration. Old dogma drowning against the tide of what was right, what was meant to be all along.

_Whatever you want it to mean._

Aziraphale isn’t sure what to make of Heaven anymore. Questions simmering beneath his consciousness; dwell too long and he will end up just like Crowley. He has been shunned. Derided. Her voice is silent, no matter how hard he prays.

But, there are things Heaven gets right. Forgiveness. Second chances. And love. _Love_ , the purest thing in all of creation.

Crowley, a demon, has forgiven him. Has given him a second chance.

Has always-

_It means I am yours. Forever, if you’ll have me._

= = = =

The sun rises and sets again.

Dark in the room, save for the faint ethereal glow from his wings. Crowley has fallen into a fitful slumber somewhere along the way. He is tucked into Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale marvels at that. Crowley, who flinched at Aziraphale holding him, who chafed at needing protection, now asleep in his arms. He had been stiff at first, but he had stayed, and Aziraphale cannot ask for anything more.

He’s not sure if this is only because of the years taking their toll. Will Crowley be so willing once they step outside the bookshop? As normal life churns on, assignments given, and the return of the Sword of Damocles dangling over their heads?

The years since the church should have been peaceful. Lonely, but peaceful. No need to constantly look over his shoulder, heart clenching with every chime of that Heavenly bell. But, Aziraphale had been more tense than ever, an endless yawn of melancholy, of wondering if the day would come he could sense Crowley’s presence no longer.

There’s a gasp, Crowley twitching, sure signs of a nightmare. Aziraphale holds him tightly, still utterly relieved that he _can_.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley awakes with a start, wild eyes full of panic. It is the first word spoken in days.

“I’m here.” _Darling_ hangs just out of reach. He fears it is too soon. Crowley is trembling, and Aziraphale longs to ask him what happened, what horrors he has suffered. 

It takes a few moments for Crowley to gather his bearings. He scrubs his eyes, Aziraphale pretends not to notice. The wrinkled clothes do nothing to hide his skeletal arms, the way his collarbone juts out even in the lowlight.

“How long was I sleeping?”

“A few hours.” He bites his lip, wondering if he should push more than he already has. Crowley is too far away. Something has awakened inside him again, intoxicating and all consuming. How he could have gone so long without Crowley’s touch is a mystery.

“You should get some more rest. You look… worn out.”

Crowley lets out a soft, sad laugh. Fingers graze Aziraphale’s cheek, pausing, hesitating, before sliding down to his torso. Crowley had always relished in Aziraphale’s softness. Hands resting against the gentle swell of his belly, daring kisses raining down on plump cheeks. “So do you.”

The years have hollowed Aziraphale just as much, scraped out and empty. Concern shining in Crowley’s eyes, heavy shadows, and Aziraphale can only muster a weak smile. “Haven’t had much an appetite for sweets lately.”

A moment, where Crowley continues to regard him, so much concern and affection it makes Aziraphale shiver. He is being reborn, right here, on this sofa, basking in Crowley’s presence. How could he possibly exist without this? Without feeling the weight of Crowley’s gaze, content with the knowledge that he is cherished?

Crowley expels a sharp breath. It contains multitudes, questions. None will be asked, and Aziraphale isn’t sure he could answer anyway. He gently pulls Crowley towards his chest, holding his breath, waiting for it all to come undone, this fragile, delicate thing between them.

And Crowley, sober and rested, grits his teeth, lowers his sullen gaze, but he does not resist.

He does not resist.

= = = =

It is morning. Aziraphale has lost track of the days. The world spins on, except for one corner of the universe, where time stands still.

Crowley is atop him, two strong arms keeping him secure. He is sleeping again, Aziraphale suspects it has been years since he has. They have never been so close for so long. He always thought it would feel awkward and frightening, skin to skin. Too tempting, too dangerous. Heaven would find out. Hell would exact its revenge. Careful steps, slow and steady. Hands held, then a hug, and perhaps a soft kiss when brave.

They have laid together for days now. It is the most natural feeling in the world.

Fingertips skate along Crowley’s arm. There is something different here. Rage. Hatred. Vestiges of something older than time and filled with malice. He had sensed it that night at the church, a terrifying coldness radiating off Crowley, unlike he had ever felt. For an agonizing moment, sure he had lost him forever.

There is still so much malevolence. Fainter now, but pungent and piercing, and it fills Aziraphale with a deep sense of dread. His shirt is loose, sliding down. An angry red mark can be seen disappearing down his spine. Not for the first time a lump crawls into Aziraphale’s throat.

_What have they done to you?_

Crowley lets out a soft sound. Head tipping forward, until he is flush over Aziraphale’s heart. A content sigh, body going limp. Peaceful. Serene.

He holds him tighter, kisses his matted hair. Crowley is different, and perhaps it is permanent. Perhaps this visceral darkness will never go away. But, this, this demon curled on his chest, enchanted by their humans, whose kisses were just as gentle and tender as before-

He is still _his_ Crowley.

Renewed determination swells over him. He knows what he must do. Flickers of anxiety about Heaven, but they’re easy to ignore. Powerless. It is Hell who he is focused on. It is Hell who will feel his wrath should they ever dare touch Crowley again.

_You will never go back there, darling._

_Never._

= = = =

The phone rings.

Their tranquility bursts, a sudden rush of air that fills their ears with shrill alarm. The world is bright, and noisy, eyes squinting in the sun. Aziraphale considers letting it ring, not wanting to face it all quite yet. But, the spell has been broken, and it is time.

“I was just wondering when you’ll be opening again?” Aziraphale’s muscles protest standing, his wings shuddering as he hides them away. It is hot outside their little bubble, and for a silly moment Aziraphale considers investing in those _air conditioners_ Crowley was always raving about.

“Why, my dear fellow, I’m not much in the mood to be open right now.” He hears Crowley stirring, snapping his fingers, and his heart plunges.

“But, it’s been over a week-“

Aziraphale doesn’t bother replying, letting the line disconnect and whirling around to see Crowley. The sunglasses are back, hair shiny and full once more, clothes he has only ever seen in magazines. He is mere feet away, but the distance is growing, and growing; Aziraphale’s arms can still feel the phantom warmth of Crowley’s body.

They have spoken so little. What can they say? He should apologize and explain and they should perhaps, for _once,_ truly sit down and sort out what _they_ were and whether this was a risk they were still willing to take…

“Aziraphale-“

“Crowley-“

They fall silent again. He must be brave. To not let his renewed sense of purpose fall by the wayside. “Perhaps I can… interest you in dinner. Sometime.” He does not want Crowley to go. The thermos still rests on the table. He is not unconvinced Crowley might still use it.

Crowley follows his eyes. This damned thing. _Please leave it here,_ he silently begs. _I’ll never breathe easy so long as you have that._

He picks it up, and Aziraphale’s stomach sinks. It is all he can do not to yank it out of his hands and destroy it for good. This one thing has haunted them for over a century. Has nearly broken them apart. Yellow eyes peer over the glasses, locking onto his own.

“Can pick you up Saturday.” Carefully spoken, every word laced with meaning. “Isn’t there that gelato place you’re always banging on about?” His eyes rest on Aziraphale’s stomach, softening with sadness. “Can go there after dinner, see if it’s worth all the hype you’ve been spouting.”

He can’t let Crowley walk out with it. A single drop and he will be gone, a fate Aziraphale could not survive. He opens his mouth, St. James Park clouds his vision. Of harsh words and 79 years of pointed silence.

Crowley is still looking at him, an intense gaze that burns right down to Aziraphale’s core. Crowley is asking the impossible, when things are still new and unsure. To trust he will come on Saturday, and all the other Saturdays thereafter.

He takes a deep breath. Another. Every instinct demands he take it back. And Crowley is waiting.

Throat too tight to speak, Aziraphale nods. Trust. It has never come easy for him. There might be only one being in the universe he trusts at all. The thermos is tucked out of sight, Aziraphale swallows. They both know his feelings. They both will have to trust.

Trust. After all these years.

Crowley heads towards the door, pauses as they cross paths. Aziraphale aches to kiss him. Hold him. _I love you, I love you, I have always loved you._ Words caught in his throat, stuck like honey. It is not the time.

Instead he straightens Crowley’s jacket, lingering on the space over his heart. “Don’t be late.”

Crowley rests his hand atop Aziraphale’s. A moment, connected, skin on skin. Somehow more intimate than days on the sofa, kissing and holding and stitching each other up. “I won’t. I promise.”

_Nobody is ever going to find out. I promise._

_I’ll come back to you. I promise._

He watches Crowley melt into the crowds. His head is swimming, disoriented. Anxiety still picks at him, thermos long out of his reach.

Crowley has never broken a promise. Not in all their thousands of years. He will be there on Saturday with his hot car and his rock and roll and this horrible darkness that lingers on his very skin.

They will dine. They will squabble. They will kiss for much too long. They will not speak of all that has happened.

And they will understand. Things are different. They are different. But, _they_ are still the same.

It should have been harder. He should have considered it more. Argued with himself. Taken some time, high in the mountains, in a temple, to really think. Actions have consequences. Heaven’s eyes are never far away. And he is an angel, through and through.

He should feel guilty. Ashamed. But, he doesn’t. He never has.

Crowley always has, and always will be, the easiest choice in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> This scene _almost_ made it into chapter four, but in the end, it had to be cut. Which actually worked out quite nicely, as I could flesh it out even more and really delve into Aziraphale's emotional state, and their very dream-like week on the couch that's been hanging around my mind ever since I wrote chapter three. I've missed writing for Aziraphale, and I've really missed writing for this universe. It's good to be back.


End file.
